


when we were girls together

by havisham



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Betrayal, Childhood, Doomed Relationship, F/F, Female-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2011-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwen and Morgana, together and apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when we were girls together

Gwen is six, and small for her age, when she is pressed into service. Gwen’s mother tells her, in no uncertain terms, that she must do whatever her new mistress says, and be humble and most of all, _hold her tongue_. “They wish you to serve,” she says, her work-roughened hands brushing off the tears from Gwen’s cheeks. “Not to ask questions.”  
   
Gwen can only nod.  
   
Her mother smiles, and smoothes Gwen’s wild curls. “That’s my girl.”  
   
Later, she is shown to the Lady Morgana’s chamber by a silent servant -- Til, who usually laughed and sang whenever she could, wears now a grave expression on her good-natured face. Til knocks on the door and must have heard what she is listening for, because she gently pushes Gwen towards the now-open door.  
   
Til gives her a small smile before departing.  
   
Gwen is alone with her new mistress.  She tries not to be afraid.  
   
*  
Morgana is a witch’s child, just turned eight. Her parents dead, she runs wild through the castle’s corridors. Her dark hair - as black as pitch -- is always tangled, and crowds around her pale, pointed face. Her eyes - green as grass -- are bright, knowing, and sharp. _Too sharp by half_ , was the court’s opinion, which filtered down to the servants and then to Gwen. But still, one could see, somehow, that she is destined to be a great beauty. Like her mother -- the King was half in love the lady, it was said, and Morgana is the _very_ image of her dead mother--  
   
An almost-princess though she is, Morgana insists on taking fencing lessons with the prince, and so she takes to wearing trousers and a tunic, for practicality’s sake. King Uther, her foster-father, is said to deny Lady Morgana nothing, and allows such eccentricities -- but still, the rumors tell he is determined that Morgana should be a great lady, like her mother, and not bring shame on the (dead) House of Gorlois.  
   
There is nothing for it.  
   
Morgana is to become a lady (it is her destiny) and Gwen is here to help her do it (that is hers.).  
   
*  
   
Morgana comes stalking out, uncomfortably bound by new dress, made of the stiffest brocade. She looks unhappy to see Gwen, who does not mind, quite. Morgana’s hair has been hastily arranged -- perhaps by an impatient servant -she  is said to be difficult -- and locks of her black hair escaped from the braid.  
   
She looks like nothing less than an irritated hedgehog, thinks Gwen, who takes care not to smile.  
   
Forgetful of her place, she says, “I’ll fix that for you.”  
   
Morgana blinks, ready to argue. But instead, she gives a cautious nod.  
   
They do not speak much, as Gwen manages to put Morgana’s hair in order. She smiles, satisfied. Morgana, who has been still, turns around and smiles too.  
   
“We shall be good friends, don’t you think?”  
   
Gwen ducks in embarrassment. Her mother had not said anything about being _friends_ with the Lady Morgana.  
   
“See. I’ve got _lots_ of servants. Everyone in Camelot is my servant. More or less. Except Uther, who is boring, and Arthur, who is just a stupid little _boy_. But. I haven’t got many friends. Would you like to be...”  
   
Morgana trails off, and reddens.  
   
Gwen thinks about it, her head cocked to the side. Morgana watches her anxiously.  
   
“Yes, I think we will be.”  
   
Morgana smiles. It is dazzling.  
   
*  
It is many years later and much has changed. Gwen’s mother died, taken by a fever. Her little brother has gone a-wandering. Her father is busy at the forge. Gwen is busy with her mistress.  
   
She is content.  
   
It is not remarked upon when Gwen touches her mistress. Why should it be, when it is the most natural thing in the world? A light brush across the cheek, to remove a wisp of hair, a quick adjustment of her dress - the neckline hangs too low and must be adjusted or _the ladies shall talk, you know._ And they exchange glances, sharp and sweet, and Gwen grins and Morgana allows herself a queenly smile and they do _know_.  
   
It is lovely, the things they know. It is a private joke, shared by two. Their hands twined as they cross the stone courtyard, their footsteps loud on the flagstones. They share a kiss on the cheek, and then on the lips. Their eyes lock on to each other and they smile, and they _know_.  
   
It is no matter, of course, for women (which they are now, and have willowy bodies and curves to show it), women have always showed affection in this way. And have done so since the world was young and innocent.  
   
 Innocent too are the times when Gwen is called to Morgana’s bed. When Morgana is white and shaking, and Gwen climbs up on the big bed and holds her close and whispers to her, old lullabies, relics from their shared childhood, until Morgana finally stills and breathes normally again.  
   
 Until she truly comes out of her violent dreams, and becomes herself again...  
   
An orphan and a half, they do what they can to comfort each other. It is innocent, and it is as natural as breathing.  
   
*  
   
Less innocent perhaps, are the times when they are completely alone - _shut up like caged birds_ , says Morgana, a dark look in her eye. _Left to ourselves_ , sighs Gwen, her fingers tangling through Morgana’s dark hair.  
   
It is a delight, it is, to tangle, to muss up Morgana’s crowning glory when often she herself will have to do battle to tame it, to hold it down and slick it up and pin it down.  
   
But now, _now_ she pins Morgana down, and kisses her. But it is not the decorous public kiss -- of friends long familiar with each other, but a kiss of a lover, new and hot. It demands and begs, it gives and takes until Morgana pulls away, breathless and bright-eyed. _Such passion_ , she says, her voice low and Gwen laughs, though she does not know why, exactly.  
   
*  
 _I love her_ , Gwen thinks, hugging herself in delight.  
   
*  
   
One day, Gwen asks, “Is this play for you? Do you think of me as practice?”  
   
Morgana does not bother to lift her head. Instead, she lifts an elegant eyebrow up, mildly inquiring. “What do you mean?”   
   
Gwen pretends to examine her fingernails, apparently fascinated by them, bluntly cut and undeniably practical.  
   
“ _Gwen._ ”  
   
“Practice. Until you get married.” _Or move on_ , but that thought remains unsaid.  
   
“Does it seem like I shall get married anytime _soon_?”  
   
Morgana is too beautiful -- _too valuable_ \-- not be married off. Uther is a practical man, and as such, he knows that a beauteous ward can attract substantial dowry, and more importantly perhaps, a new ally bound by blood. And that bond would surely be hard to turn aside when it was called for.  
   
But matrimony, for Morgana, has been long since judged unlikely. Gwen remembers the dread she felt as Morgana turned fifteen and the castle seemed suddenly besieged by her suitors. If Morgana married, she would leave Gwen behind and then where would she be? She’d go down a bit, as the kitchen tittle-tattle would say, who were of the opinion that _Guinevere_ gave herself airs, for a daughter of a mere blacksmith.  
   
But Morgana did not get married at fifteen. Or sixteen. Or seventeen. Indeed, she was now nineteen and had no serious suitors at all. There were many theories as to why this was. One had it that Uther asked for too much gold, too many men, too many concessions, too much for any serious offers.  
   
 Another suggested that perhaps Uther did not wish to see Morgana married.  
   
 Perhaps Uther wished to see Morgana married to Arthur.  
   
Or perhaps he plans to marry her off to himself.  
   
Gwen shudders at the thought, and feels a little sick.  
   
*  
   
“Back to me, Gwen.”  
“Oh! I...”  
“You were thinking extremely hard about me. It’s very flattering.”  
“Yes, I suppose I was, and it is.” Gwen says this without much enthusiasm.  
   
Morgana throws her head back and laughs - a sharp peal of sound that curves around Gwen and makes her shiver, not unpleasantly so.  
   
“Anyway, perhaps _I_ am practice for _you_?” Morgana says, a tad haughtily  
“Practice for what?”  
“I’ve seen how you look at Arthur, don’t deny it, Gwen. You _like_ him.”  
“I do not!”  
“He’s grown up quite a bit since we saw him last. He looks quite grown up now. Perhaps he shall have a beard by autumn.” A sly smile flickers across Morgana’s face. “And he notices you, at least. How he says your name! _Guineveeeere!_ Like a sheep, he bahs it out.”  
   
“He’s just a boy,” Gwen huffs impatiently.  
   
“He’s the Prince, and Gwen, I say this as a _friend_...” Morgana’s hand touches Gwen’s chest and lingers there. “Even if he returned your affections - which I do believe you have - he could not treat you as you deserve. Not while Uther lives. And perhaps not after.”  
   
“Uther! I don’t think the King knows who I am, though he’s seen me a thousand times or more.”  
   
Morgana’s face darkens. “And therein lies my problem! If I was to be married -- _which I do not want to be_ \-- for if I was, it would be to some young version of Uther, someone who would take me apart and swallow me whole. Until there’s nothing left of me. It happened to my mother. It won’t happen to me.”  
   
Gwen takes Morgana’s hand and caresses it, but Morgana stares straight ahead, unseeing.  
   
“He’d be like Arthur, perhaps, some little boy in a man’s armor, who does not know his sword from his cock.”  
“My lady!”  
   
Morgana shoots Gwen a sharp look.  
   
“Have I shocked you, Gwen? I assure you that I know more of life than the bower.”  
“No doubt, but you should not... Confuse Arthur with his father. I think he could be a better man. He has it in him to be so.”  
“Oh? And this is a _boy_ you profess such indifference to...”  
“As a citizen of Camelot, I have an obligation to be interested in the future...”  
   
Morgana is laughing again.  
   
“Perhaps we are playing with each other, sweet Guinevere. It is good sport.”  
   
Gwen says, a little dryly, “ _Perhaps_.”  
   
*  
   
When Morgana is gone, well and truly gone, Gwen finds that she still dreams about her.  
   
These dreams are not ones of violent prophecy, nor do they have anything to with the present, which is as unreal as any dream. No, here she and Morgana are as they always were. They are in Morgana’s chamber, which is now locked away, and the key destroyed. The chamber, too, is as it ever was, cleaned and fresh flowers in their vases. It is evening and the shadows gather around them, deepening. She is sewing, and Morgana is reading. One of the candles is burning low and Gwen reaches to replace it.  
   
A cool breeze blows on her face, and for the first time, Gwen realized that she is crying.  
   
She touches her cheeks in disbelief.  
   
“Are you crying for me?” Morgana’s voice is serious, but Gwen knows there’s a smirk curling up her red mouth.  
“I am not.”  
“Oh?”  
“I am crying, just, _generally_.”  
“I see.”   
   
Gwen jolts awake. Her cheeks are wet. Arthur stirs next to her, but sleeps still.  
*  
   
Many years go by. Things shift and change, so much so that they are no longer recognizable from what they once were. Gwen becomes Guinevere, weighted down by heavy robes of state and a crown that gives her a headache.  
   
Today is a special day. Today, the notorious witch, Morgan Le Fay, wishes to surrender.  
   
Queen Guinevere wants to say --- “We were girls together. Of all people, I would know who she is and how much she has suffered. I do not believe what they say; that she is evil, that she is a witch, that she tempts good knights to their deaths. _I do not believe it!_ If there is darkness in her heart, it is others that put it there.”  
   
She thinks of Uther, the mad, now moldering in his tomb. She thinks of Morgause, the thief, smirking and bright in armor, now supposedly dead. By her son’s own hand too, if the rumors are to be believed.  
   
Morgana’s eyes are downcast; her face does a good imitation of remorse, of regret. Indeed, she is a picture of contrition. See? She is in mourning for the old king, many years dead. She is swathed in black silk for a king, her father, whom she herself helped kill.  And Uther _was_ her father, it is known secret, but one that is not spoken too loud.  
   
 King Arthur shifts on his throne, uncomfortable. It is clear, from his expression, that he wishes Merlin was here. But the wizard is gone, fetched away from bed the night before. No one knows where he is or when he will return. It is most unusual.  
   
Of course, magic is involved. It always is, these days.  
   
 Morgana has given every indication that she has changed, that she can embrace her family once again. She even offers a goodly gift for the king. It is a sheath, woven by magic most pure. When it is coupled with Excalibur, it will protect the king so that no knight living could harm him, and no sword could draw out his precious, royal blood.  
   
She offers this gift as proof of her faith and loyalty.  
   
Arthur turns to Guinevere. He looks weary, she thinks, with a stab of guilt. _I must insist he rest more._ Arthur says, “Guinevere, what do you think? Should we pardon our sister and bring her home again?”  
   
Guinevere’s mouth is dry. “My l-l-lord--” she stutters, briefly slipping back into an old habit she had thought long dead, for her words now flow as smoothly as water. “My Lord, we were once girls together. For the sake of our ancient love, I would beg you to release her. But...”  
   
She takes a breath. The court is watching her. The knights are watching. Arthur is watching. Morgana is not, for her eyes are still downcast.  
   
“But she is not the girl I once knew.”  
   
The court murmurs its surprise.  
   
Morgana lifts up her head and smiles her most dazzling smile.    
   
“It is still good sport,” she says, and with a flash of magic that leaves everyone’s throats burning and eyes watering, she is gone.  
   
No one can understand _what_ she meant or _why_ she left the sheath behind.  
   
   
 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] when we were girls together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3453338) by [allysseriordan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allysseriordan/pseuds/allysseriordan)




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